Gemotions

The ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, a monotonous rhythm that did nothing to soothe the persistent itch in Amelia’s palms. She drummed her fingers on the chipped Formica table, the sound a small, rebellious punctuation mark in the quiet of the doctor's office waiting room. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing a slow, pointless ballet. She’d been waiting for an hour, and the medical journals stacked on the coffee table offered no respite from the feeling of… stagnation.

Finally, her name was called. The doctor, a man whose face seemed permanently etched with a weary frown, explained the mix-up with a mumbled apology. Apparently, her records were… another person’s. He stammered something about a thorough investigation. Amelia stared at him, feeling a strange disconnect, like watching a play performed by actors whose lines were utterly without meaning.